


Toy Robot with A Glitch

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableism, Brotherly Love, Epilepsy, Focal Seizure, Gen, Generalised Seizure, Hurt/Comfort, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Kid!Lock, Kidfic, Kidlock, Myoclonics, Myoclonus, Seizure, T/C Seizure, Tonic-Clonic, Young Mycroft, Young Sherlock, absence seizure, accidental ableism, clinical, fraternal love, h/c, seizure disorder, social stigma, tonic clonic, tonic clonic seizure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 12:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7463271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft had always known something was off with Sherlock. He was twitchy in the morning, and it was beyond just stretching out his fatigued muscles...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toy Robot with A Glitch

"Oh, Sherlock!" Violet gave a disgruntled moan in the vague direction of her youngest as his glass smashed to the floor and cold milk spilt down into the grooves of the quarry stone tiles. "Every morning - surely you would have learnt by now that glasses don't belong on the kitchen floor?" Sherlock frowned up at his mother as she peered over him, a roll of kitchen paper in one hand to mop up the spill, and the dustpan and brush in the other to sweet up the offending shards of glass. "Honestly, Sherlock, I don't know what I'm going to do with you. That's three glasses in the last two days." 

Sherlock rolled his right shoulder and shook the entire limb down to his hand where it felt like there were ants crawling all over his palm. He hadn't even realised what was happening until the glass smashed on the floor and his socks felt suddenly damp and squishy between his toes. "Sorry," he mumbled, his lips tugged to the left side of his face in confusion. 

"I'll have to buy one of those feeding beakers from the baby shop if this continues. I can't have you destroying every glass I own." She swatted him with the kitchen roll tube, though her initial moaning had become softer and her tone was nowhere near as sharp. "Go on, upstairs with you and get ready for school. Dad will bring you and Mycroft in today, I have an appointment." Sherlock got to his feet on his mother's instruction and stood for a moment, looking at the mess he had somehow managed to make - again. Violet watched him a moment before shoo-shooing him off one more time. "Come _on_ , Sherlock! Time is getting on. Upstairs, this minute, and get dressed for school. And for goodness sake," She called as he began jogging up the stairs, "Brush your hair!" 

When Sherlock reached the top landing, Mycroft pulled open his bedroom door sharply and stood in the jamb with his hands on his hips. "It happened again, didn't it?" He questioned his little brother. 

"What?" Sherlock snapped, lingering outside of his bedroom that was opposite Mycroft's. 

"That twitching in your hand," Mycroft elaborated. "It happened again? I heard Mummy shouting about you breaking a glass and, insufferable though you choose to be, I can't see you doing it deliberately just to be told off after how annoyed she got yesterday morning." Mycroft raised his brows at his brother and pulled his hands from his hips. "Always when you're having breakfast," He said, distantly. "It's strange." 

" _You're_ strange!" Sherlock said and poked out his tongue. He didn't wait to hear a comeback from Mycroft and, instead, pushed open his bedroom door and let it slam behind him as he slipped inside. 

 

Siger drove his boys to school in the old, restored MGA. Mycroft had always loved the car but Sherlock detested it's ice-cream colour and red leather interior. With the vow that their mother would collect them, Siger waved a loving goodbye and left the boys in the large gravelled entranceway to the archaic school. The entire grounds around them buzzed with children, huddled in groups and laughing loudly as they chatted about how they'd spent their weekend. Although apart by numerous years - Sherlock in his first and Mycroft finishing up his final year - the boys did see rather a lot of one another on the school grounds. Their disliking of other children was their bond and, each break time and study period saw them flocking together in the library or underneath the often forgotten about archway that once served as a rear entrance to the grounds. 

With fifteen minutes before the bell tolled for the start of school, Mycroft tugged Sherlock's jumper sleeve and led off in the direction of their archway. Sherlock's shoes scuffed against the sandstone gravel beneath him as he dragged his feet and trailed behind his brother slowly. Once alone, Mycroft fixed Sherlock's unruly curls with swift flicks of his fingers and straightened his crooked tie. "Don't you think people look at you oddly enough without turning up to school looking like a vagrant?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I don't care, Mycroft." 

"You should!" The elder Holmes tutted. "It reflects badly on me, you know? All I ever hear is how you sit there staring into space for half the morning before seemingly finding your second wind and causing trouble all afternoon." Mycroft shook his head, "Try to fit in, for God's sake, Sherlock." 

"You say this every day," Sherlock sighed through his nose. "Has it made a difference yet?" 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and pointed a finger at his waif-like chest. "Pay attention in class and keep your mouth shut. At least pretend to be normal for once." Sherlock rolled his eyes again scrubbed his fingers through his hair, undoing Mycroft's earlier preening. Somehow, Mycroft resisted the urge to kick him or to attempt to tame the curls again. Instead, he checked his watch and then looked back up at his brother. "Five minutes until the registration bell. Meet me here for the first break, okay?" 

Sherlock nodded his head and laced his fingers around the strap of his bag over his left shoulder. "Okay," He promised and scuffed his feet as he walked away from his brother. 

 

Sherlock was waiting under the archway when Mycroft stepped under with noisy feet. "You got out early?" He greeted his younger brother and then altered his expression as he looked at his face. "You're pale," He stated. "What's wrong?" 

Sherlock shook his curly head. "Nothing's wrong. What's wrong with you?" He snapped. 

"Back to this, are we?" Mycroft rolled his eyes and crouched to search through his bag. "Here," He held out his hand to Sherlock, offering him a breakfast bar. "Eat this - you look peaky." 

Sherlock didn't take the proffered treat. "I'm not hungry," He huffed with his hands in his trouser pockets. "My belly's funny." 

Mycroft snapped his back up and stood straight. He threw the bar back into his bag and then looked squarely at his brother. "Funny? Funny how?" He asked with a frown of confusion. "If you're just trying to get out of going to your history class, you could try something more original than a 'funny belly'." He tutted. 

"No," Sherlock shook his head then stopped abruptly as he felt a little dizzy with the motion. "Like on a merry-go-round, or something." He elaborated, "Like when Dad drives over the hill and that pulling feeling goes through you." 

Mycroft drew down the corners of his mouth and raised his eyes, considering Sherlock's explanation. "Maybe because you didn't eat this morning, and you threw your drink all over the kitchen." He leant over and reached back into his bag for the breakfast bar. He offered it out to Sherlock again. "Eat this." 

Sherlock crinkled his nose up and shook his head in two brief swings. "I don't want it, I'm not hungry." He snapped again. "And I didn't throw it!"

Mycroft pushed the bar into his pocket and eyed his little brother. "So it threw itself, did it? It's your twitchy hand. Maybe you should actually consider telling Mummy about it." 

"Telling her what? My hand is shaking?" Sherlock shook his head, "She'll say 'low blood sugar, my darling' and spoon another desert-sized portion into the lumpy porridge she always gives me." 

"If you actually tried eating food once in a while you might not feel so shaky," Mycroft said distantly. "Anyway, I have to sit a practice exam so I can't see you at dinner break until half an hour in. I trust you could keep out of trouble for thirty minutes?" He reached for the bag at his feet and closed it before hooking it over his right shoulder. Sherlock didn't verbally respond, just glared at him with a firm pout fixed on his lips and his eyes as sharp as he could make them. "Good boy," Mycroft crooned, and walked away. 

 

 

"Sherlock Holmes! If you do not start paying attention, you'll find yourself in detention. I didn't have this trouble with your brother, though Lord knows you two are nothing alike." Mister Allistair placed his hand on the top of Sherlock's head and whipped it around, bringing Sherlock's line of vision away from the window and to the blackboard at the front of the class. "How about you read for us, Master Holmes? Page three, first paragraph..." 

Slowly pulling himself up to his feet, Sherlock stared at the textbook on the table in front of him. He grasped it between both of his hands and lifted it up to his chest, widening his eyes to focus them on the words. The letters jumbled and slipped about, creating a mixed-up alphabet in front of him, dancing and blurred until he couldn't see anything but foggy, black squiggles like ants marching across the page. 

"In your own time, Sherlock." Mister Allistair called out, perched now on the edge of his desk facing out at the class. The room was silent and the twenty other pupils alternated between turning to glare at Sherlock and reading through the desired paragraph themselves from their own copy of the book. 

Sherlock puffed out his cheeks, feeling a bit woozy as that funny feeling came back into his stomach and made him feel like he was riding the teacups at the Sussex fair his mother had taken him and Mycroft to the summer before. He shook his head and blew out the air from his cheeks. "Umm..." he began and smacked his lips once or twice. He widened his eyes, trying to focus, and looked up at his teacher. "...ugh..." And then everything went horrifically black. 

Mister Allistair watched Sherlock's eyes flow suddenly back, his sockets turning white as his pupils disappeared, and his body seemed to jerk itself backwards in a stiff posture, his head thrown back. A deep, heaving grunt escaped his chest like a scream from an old man, guttural and raw. He lay on the wooden floor, his body stiffened in an odd angle, and let out another groan before his knees locked, arching his lower body off the ground, and his fingers curled tightly. His arms bent tight at the elbows, halfway across his chest, and began to jerk in and out against his trunk. Mister Allistair moved quickly and skidded to his knees alongside Sherlock's contracting body. Watery sounds began to slosh around in Sherlock's mouth as saliva pooled in his throat, barred from being swallowed by tightened muscles all over his body. 

"Amber, take Kathleen and go straight to the sickbay. Ask for Nurse Penn to call for an ambulance for Sherlock; tell Nurse Penn I said it's an emergency, and he's having a seizure, make sure she also call to his family, is that understood?" The two girls did as they were asked, running from the room so quickly that their patent shoes clip-clopped off of the polished floor with each heavy step. "Markus, I want you to go straight to the upper sixth office and ask for Mycroft Holmes to be excused. You're to bring him here, is that clear?" He said, his hand under Sherlock's head as the convulsive movements seemed to intensify. He looked over his shoulder as young Markus simply stared at him. "Go now, boy!" He yelled, "Everybody else, remain in your seats and face forward. Do you understand me?" 

Despite the chaos, the class chorused a well-rehearsed, "Yes, Mister Allistair," in perfect unison. 

It was a social event, of sorts, to see the class brat suddenly receiving caring attention. By the time Mycroft had been hauled from his exam and taken to the history block where Sherlock's class was, Sherlock's body was still but he was unmoving and breathing very deeply, laid on his side with Mister Allistair's blazer tucked under his sweat-soaked head. Mycroft rushed inside and straight to his brother, kneeling on the floor beside him. The tangy smell of urine filled his nose and he could see thick saliva pooled under Sherlock's cheek. 

"What did you do to him?" Mycroft accused, looking up at the teacher who towered above them. 

"He just fell down; he looked a little like one of those toy robots, only with a glitch!" Mister Allistair said, shaking his head, clearly very bewildered. "He started to make strange, loud noises and then his body shook violently. An ambulance has been sent for and I also asked that your parents be called." 

Mycroft pushed his hand through Sherlock's damp curls, moving them from his sweaty face. "Oh, Sherlock," he said quietly, despite the audience he had. "I knew something was wrong." 

 

 

The hospital room Sherlock was placed in was childish and garishly printed with clowns and forest animals, primary colours abundant in the ceiling stickers and wall art. He had a funny cap on his head, his hair all tucked up inside of it, with wires that came off it that were attached to a monitor beside the bed. The nurses had put a nappy on him and dressed him in a white gown with blue, red and green balloons all over it. It tied up behind his neck and around his back. He lay still on his side, sleeping deeply, his right hand twitching up and down occasionally and making the machines beep. 

"...about three minutes," Mycroft heard the nurse say to the moustached Doctor who hovered in the doorway with his Mum and Dad. "In his schoolroom. Urinary incontinence, full LOC. The description given to the paramedics by the teacher was indicative of a tonic-clonic seizure." 

"Seizure?" Mycroft didn't like the shriek in his mother's voice as she repeated the nurse's words. 

"The EEG has show spikes and we've witnessed simple focal seizures since he's been here, with some possible indication of myoclonic jerks whilst he's been sleeping." The nurse went on and Mycroft heard his mother give a cry that suddenly turned muffled. He looked over his shoulder, not wanting to move away from Sherlock's bed, and saw his mother hugging his father close and crying. Mycroft wanted to tell them that Sherlock's hand twitched a lot. He wanted to say that, in the morning, Sherlock's hand would shake and move, and knock things over. He wanted to say that Sherlock would stare at him and not blink, making strange sucking sounds with his lips. He wanted to say it all but he couldn't, because saying it meant making it worse, and it also meant getting up and leaving Sherlock alone. He didn't want to do either of those things. 

"His temperature is normal postictally; he has not had any further tonic-clonic seizures." The nurse explained and Mycroft heard the doctor hum. 

"We will continue to run the EEG for the next forty-eight hours, and record the electrical activity in your son's brain. We'll run a few tests, a spinal tap and blood and urine tests to rule out infection. What is being described is seizure activity in multiple forms, and you should prepare yourselves for the concluding diagnosis being that of Epilepsy." The doctor's voice was deep and velvety and Mycroft hated it. 

What he hated more, though, was that word. He knew the word - Epilepsy. He'd read it a few times when he was in the library, trying to work out why Sherlock's hand did the twitching thing. He knew that that was what the doctor would come back with after the tests were over - he'd known it for some time. He knew that when the cap came off and the electrodes were taken away, and when Sherlock was allowed to pee like a normal person and not be kept tethered to a cot-bed, the new buzz-word would be epilepsy and it would be Sherlock's buzz-word. That from now on Sherlock would come with an instruction manual and medication and watchful eyes that were nervous and unsure. 

At eighteen years old, Mycroft knew enough about what people with instruction manuals were left with; a stigma. From now on, Sherlock would be exactly what Mister Allistair had said - a toy robot with a glitch.


End file.
